PRISONERS OF FATE
Beulah returned to the house to minister to her brother, but Mrs.
Arthurs stopped her on the stairs.
"Your mother knows," she said. "They are both in the room with
Allan."
Her first impulse was to rush in and complete the family circle, but
some fine sense restrained her. For distraction she plunged into the
task of preparing breakfast.
At length they came down. Beulah saw them on the stairs, and knew
that the gulf was bridged.
"Allan is better," her mother said, when she saw the girl. "He has
asked for you." And the next minute Beulah was on her knees by the
white bed, caressing the locks that would fall over the pale
forehead.
"How did I get here, Beulah?" he whispered. "How did we all get here?
What has happened?"
"You have been hurt, Allan," she said. "You have been badly hurt, but
you are going to get well again. When you are stronger we will talk
about it, but at present you must be still and rest."
"Lie still and rest," he repeated. "How good it is to lie still and
rest!"
Later in the day the pain in his wound began to give much discomfort,
but he was able to swallow some porridge with pure cream, and his
breath came easily. His father stayed about the house, coming every
little while to look in upon son and daughter, and as Allan's great
constitution gave evidence of winning the fight a deep happiness came
upon John Harris. He was able to sleep for a short time, and in the
afternoon suggested a walk with his wife. Beulah saw that they were
arm in arm as they disappeared in the trees by the river.
"I haven't told you all yet," Harris said to her. "I have done even
worse than you suppose, but in some way it doesn't seem so bad
to-day. Last night I was in Gethsemane."
It was strange to hear a word suggestive of religion from his lips.
Harris had not renounced religion; he had merely been too busy for
it. But this word showed that his mind had been travelling back over
old tracks.
"And to-day we are in Olivet," she answered, tenderly. "What matters
if--if everything's all right?"
"If only Allan--," he faltered.
"Allan will get well," she said. "When he could withstand the first
shock he will get well. Of course he must have attention, but he is
in the right place for that."
"The Arthurses are wonderful people," he ventured, after a pause.
"Mary, they have found something that we missed."
"But we have found it now John. We are going to take time to live.
That is where we made our mistake."
There was another pause, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the
rushing of the river.
"Beulah was right," he said, at last. "Beulah is a wonderful girl,
and a beautiful."
"She will not be wanting to go back home with us," said the mother.
"So much the better. Mary, Mary, we have no home to go back to!"
She looked at him with a sudden puzzled, half-frightened expression.
"No home, John? No home? You don't mean that?"
He nodded and turned his face away. "I said I hadn't told you all,"
he managed at length..."I sold the farm."
She was sitting on a fallen log, very trim, and grey, and small, but
she seemed suddenly to become smaller and greyer still.
"Sold the old farm," she repeated, mechanically.
"Yes, I sold the old farm," he said again, as if finding some delight
in goading himself with the repetition. "I thought I saw a chance to
make a lot of money if only I had some ready cash to turn in my hand,
and I sold it. I thought I would be rich and then I would be happy.
But they took the money last night. They found out about it some way,
and took it, and nearly killed our boy. Mary, you worked hard all
your life, and to-day you have nothing. I brought you to this."
She looked with unseeing eyes through the trees at the fast-running
water. Her thoughts were with the old home, with the ideals they had
cherished when they founded it, with the hardships and the sorrow,
and the sickness and the pain, and the joy that had hallowed it as no
other spot in all the universe--the place where their first love had
nursed them in its tenderness, where they had sat hand in hand in the
gathering dusk, drinking the ripple of the water and the whirr of the
wild duck's wing; where she had gone down into the valley of the
shadow and their little children had come into their arms. And it was
gone. He had sold it. Without so much as by-your-leave from the
partner of his labours and his life he had sold it and left them
destitute.
She saw it all, and for the moment her heart shrank within her. But
she saw, too, the futility of it all. She might have upbraided him;
she might have returned in part the sorrows he had forced upon her,
for he was wounded now and could not strike back. But she rose and
stretched her arms toward him.
"You said I had nothing, John. You are wrong. I have you. I have
everything!"
..."And it was to you, beloved, to you, a woman of such great soul,
that I could do this thing...I should be utterly wretched...But I'm
not." He spoke slowly and deliberately, as one having ample time, and
with the diction of earlier years. "I should be scouring the valleys
with a troop of men, hunting for our money. But I'm not. It seems
such a puny thing, it's hardly worth the while--except for the
happiness it might bring to you, and Beulah."...
They sat long in the sunshine of the warm autumn afternoon, living
again through sweet, long-forgotten days, and already planning for
their future. Harris would again exercise homestead right, and with
Allan to take up land alongside they should have comfort and
happiness. They would go back to the beginning; they would start over
again; and this time they would not stray from the path.
When they returned to the house it was almost evening, and they found
the doctor from town busy over Allan. "Would have killed nine men out
of ten," he told Harris, quite frankly; "but this boy is the tenth.
He's badly hurt, but he'll pull through, if we can arrest any
infection. His constitution and his clean blood will save him."
Before the doctor left Arthurs inquired if the police had any further
details of the crime. Harris appeared to have lost interest in
everything except the members of his family.
"Quite a mystery," said the doctor. "I understand one of the robbers
was shot, and I will go on up from here to make an examination, as
coroner. To-morrow the police will bring out a jury, and a formal
verdict will be returned. A systematic search will also be undertaken
to recover the money, as I understand that you"--turning to
Harris--"suffered a heavy financial loss in addition to the injury to
your son. Of course, it is impossible to say how many took part in
the affair, but it is not likely the outlaws numbered more than two,
in which case they are both accounted for. The one captured had no
money to speak of in his possession, but he may have cached it
somewhere, and when he sees the rope before him it will be likely to
make him talk. They seem to have a pretty straight case against him.
Not only was he captured practically in the act, but they have
another important clue. He owns up to his name frankly enough, and it
seems the revolver found on the scene of the crime had his initials,
'J. T.'--Jim Travers, cut in the grip. In fact, he admits the
revolver is--. What's wrong, Miss Harris? Are you ill?"
Beulah's breath had stopped at the mention of Travers' name, and she
staggered to a chair. Harris, too, was overcome.
"We knew him down East," Beulah explained, when she had somewhat
recovered her composure. "I could not have thought it possible!"
"I didn't think he would have carried it that far," said Harris, at
length, speaking very slowly and sadly. "Jim, Jim, you've made a
worse mistake than mine."
Mary learned of the disclosure in a few minutes, and followed Beulah
upstairs.
"You poor child!" she said, as she overtook her daughter.
"It's not me," she shot back. "It's Jim. He must be saved, some way.
It's impossible to think--I won't think it, no matter what they say!
Let them find what they like!...But he's in a hole, and we've got to
get him out."
The mother shook her head with some recollection of the blindness of
love. And yet her own heart refused to accept any idea of guilt on
the part of Travers.
"I want to be alone, mother," said Beulah. "I want to be alone, to
think. I'm going down by the river."
As she strode rapidly through the paths in the cotton-woods the girl
gradually became conscious of one dominating impulse in her maze of
emotions. She must see Jim. She must see him at once. She must see
him alone. There were things to be said that needed--that
admitted--no witness. She knew that. Arthurs or one of the men would
willingly ride to town for her, or with her, but this was a task for
her alone. They must know nothing until it was over.
Outwardly calm, but inwardly burning with, impatience, she returned
to the house and went through the form of eating supper. Then she
dallied through the evening, giving her attention to Allan until all
the household, except her mother, had gone to bed.
"I will watch with Allan to-night," her mother said. "You need rest
more than I do. Lie down in my room and try to get some sleep."
Her mother kissed her, and Beulah went to her room. But not to sleep.
When silence filled all the house she slipped gently down the stairs,
through the front yard, and into the corral. Fortunately her horse
had been stabled. She harnessed him with some difficulty in the
darkness, and threw herself into the saddle. For a hundred yards she
walked him; then she drew him off the hard road on to the grass and
loosed him into a trot. Half a mile from the house she was swinging
at a hard gallop down the dark valley. The soft night wind pressed
its caresses on her flushed cheek, but her heart beat fast with
excitement and impatience, and she galloped the foaming horse to the
limit of his speed. More than once even the sure-footed ranger almost
fell over the treacherous badger-holes, but she had learned to ride
like the saddle itself, and she merely tightened the rein and urged
him faster.
Two hours of such violence were a safety-valve to her emotions, and
both horse and rider were content to enter the little town at a walk.
Here and there a coal-oil lamp shed its cube of yellow light through
an unblinded window, but the streets were deserted and in utter
darkness. She had now reached the point at which her general plan to
see Travers must be worked out into detail, and she allowed the horse
his time as she turned the matter over in her mind. She had no doubt
that if she found Sergeant Grey he would permit an interview, but she
shrank from making the request. She might do so as a last resort; but
if possible she meant to seek out her lover--for so she thought of
him--for herself. She knew that the jails in the smaller towns were
crude affairs, where the prisoner was locked up and usually left
without a guard. The first thing was to find the jail.
At a crossing her horse almost collided with a boy returning home
from some late errand. "Oh, Mr. Boy," she said. "Come here, please, I
want you to help me."
The boy approached hesitatingly, as though suspicious that some kind
of trick were being played on him.
"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where the jail is? I'll
give you a dollar if you do."
"There ain't no jail here, miss," he replied frankly, evidently
satisfied that the question was bona fide. "There's a coop, but you
wouldn't give a dime to see it. It's just a kind of a shed."
"That's just what I want to find," she continued, "and I'll give you
a dollar to show me where it is."
"Easy pickin'," said the boy. "Steer your horse along this way."
He led her through the main part of the town, to where a one-storey
building, somewhat apart, stood aloof in the darkness.
"Some coop, ain't it?" said her guide, with boyish irony. "My dad
says that's what we git fer votin' against the Gover'ment. The fire
truck's in the front end, an' there's a cell with bars behind. Do you
want to see that, too?"
"Yes, that's what I want to see, but I can find it myself now, thank
you."
"Say, miss, you better be kerful. They've got a murd'rer in there
now--Oh, say"--with a sudden change in his voice--"maybe he's
somethin' to you? They ain't proved nothin' against him yet."
"Yes, he's a good deal to me," she said.
"Brother?" he demanded, with disconcerting persistence.
"No."
If her eyes could have pierced the darkness she would have seen a
broad smile of understanding spreading over his young face. But it
was a sympathetic smile withal. "Then I guess this dollar stands for
'beat it'?" he remarked.
"You win," she said, falling into his slang. "Also, forget it."
"I gotchuh, miss," he said, trotting off. Then he called back through
the darkness, "An' I hope he gits off."
"God bless him for that," she said to herself, as she dismounted and
made her way to the back of the building. She saw the outline of a
door, which was undoubtedly locked, and further down the same wall
was a little square window, with bars on it. There appeared to be
only one cell, so there was no problem of locating the right one.
She stole up along the wall, but the window was too high for her.
Searching about the littered yard she found a square tin, such as the
ranchers use to carry coal-oil. Mounting this she was able to bring
her face to the bars. The window was open for ventilation, and she
strained her ear, but at first could hear nothing for the tumultous
beating of her own heart. But at length she seemed to catch the sound
of regular breathing from within.
"Jim," she said, in a low voice, listening intently. But there was no
response.
"Jim," she repeated, a little louder. She fancied she heard a stir,
and the sound of breathing seemed to cease.
"Jim Travers!"
"Yes!" came a quick reply. "Yes! Who is it?"
"Come to the window, Jim."
In a moment she saw the outline of his face through the darkness.
"Beulah Harris," he demanded, in his quiet voice, "what are you doing
here?"
A great happiness surged about her at the sound of his voice and the
warmth of his breath against her face. "I might ask the same, Jim,
but such questions are embarrassing. Anyway, I am on the right side
of the wall."
She saw his teeth gleam in the darkness. What a wonderful soul he
was!
"But you shouldn't have come like this," he protested, and his voice
was serious enough. "You are compromising yourself."
"Not I," she answered. "These bars are more inflexible than the
stiffest chaperone. And I just had to see you, Jim, at once. We've
got to get you out of here."
"How's Allan?"
"Getting better."
"And your father? Pretty angry at me, I guess."
"No, Father isn't angry any more. He's just sorry."
"Times are changing, Beulah. But if he wound that sack around my neck
in sorrow, I don't want him at it when he's cross."
She laughed a little, mirthful ripple. Then, with sudden seriousness,
"But, Jim, we shouldn't be jesting. We've got to get you out of
here."
"I'm not worrying, Beulah," he answered. "They seem to have the drop
on me, but I know a few things they don't. Shall I tell you what I
know?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it would seem like arguing--like trying to prove you are
innocent. And you don't need to prove anything to me. You understand?
You don't need to prove anything to me."
She felt his eyes hot on her face through the darkness. "You don't
need to prove anything to me," she repeated.
For a moment he held himself in restraint. The words were simple
enough, but he knew what they meant. And this country girl, whom he
had learned to like on her father's farm, had grown larger and larger
in his scheme of things with the passing weeks. At first he had tried
to dissuade himself, to think of it only as a passing fancy, and to
remember that he was engaged in the serious business of earning
enough money to build a shack on a homestead, and buy a team and a
plough, and a cow and some bits of furniture. It would be a plain,
simple life, but Beulah was accustomed--What had Beulah to do with
it? He scolded himself for permitting her intrusion, and turned his
mind to the mellow fields where he would follow the plough until the
sun dipped into the Rockies, And then he would turn the horses loose
for food and rest, and in the shack the jack-pine knots would be
frying in the kitchen stove, and the little table would be set, and
Beulah--
And now this girl had come to him, while he was under the shadow, and
because the shadow would not let him speak, and because her soul
would not be bound by custom, and because her love could not be
concealed, she had let him know.
"Have you thought it over, Beulah?" he said. "I have no right, as
matters stand, to give or take a promise. I have no right--"
"You have no right to say 'as matters stand' as though matters had
anything to do with it. They haven't Jim. No, I have not thought it
over. This isn't something you think. It is something that comes to
you when you don't think, or in spite of your thinking. But it's
real--more real than anything you can touch or handle--more real than
these bars, which are not so close as you seem to fancy--"
And then, between the iron rods across the open window, his lips met
hers.
..."And you were seeking life, Beulah," he said at last. "Life that
you should live in your own way, for the joy of living it. And--"
"And I have found it," she answered, in a voice low and thrilling
with tenderness. "I have found it in you. We shall work out our
destiny together, but we must keep our thought on the destiny, rather
than the work. Oh, Jim, I'm just dying to see your homestead--our
homestead. And are there two windows? We must have two windows,
Jim--one in the east for the sun, and one in the west for the
mountains."
"Our house is all window, as yet," he answered gaily. "And there
isn't as much as a fence post to break the view."
"What are you doing here?" said a sharp voice, and Beulah felt as
though her tin box were suddenly sinking into a great abyss. She
turned with a little gasp. Sergeant Grey stood within arm's length of
her.
"Oh, it's Sergeant Grey," she said, with a tone of relief. "I am
Beulah Harris. And I've just been getting myself engaged to your
prisoner here. Oh, it's not so awful as you think. You see, we knew
each other in Manitoba, and we've really been engaged for quite a
while, but he didn't know it until to-night."
For a moment the policeman retained his reserve. He remembered the
girl, who had already cost him a deflected glance, and he reproached
himself that he could doubt her even as he doubted, but how could he
know that she had not been passing in firearms or planning a release?
"What she says is right, sergeant," said Travers. "She has just
broken the news to me, and I'm the happiest man in Canada, jail or no
jail."
There was no mistaking the genuine ring in Travers' voice, and the
policeman was convinced. "Most extraordinary," he remarked, at
length, "but entirely natural on your part, I must say. I
congratulate you, sir." The officer had not forgotten the girl who
clung to his arm the morning before. "Hang me, sir," he continued,
"there's luck everywhere but in the Mounted Police."
He unlocked the door of the cell. "I ought to search you," he said to
Beulah, "but if you'll give me your word that you have no firearms,
weapons, knives, or matches, I'll admit you to this--er--drawing-room
for a few minutes."
"Nothing worse than a hat-pin," she assured him. "But you must come,
too," she added, placing her hand on his arm. "You must understand
that."
He accompanied her into the cell, but remained in the doorway, where
he suddenly developed an interest in astronomy. At length he turned
quickly and faced in to the darkness.
"Speaking, not as an officer, but as a fellow-man, I wish you were
damned well--that is, very well--out of this, old chap," he said to
Travers.
"Oh, that's all right," Jim assured him. "You couldn't help taking me
up, of course, and for all your kindness you would quite cheerfully
hang me if it fell to your lot. But it isn't going to."
"I stand ready to be of any service to you that is permissible."
"The inquest is to be to-morrow, isn't it?" asked Beulah. "I think
you should be at the inquest, Jim."
"That's right," said the sergeant. "You may throw some new light on
the case."
"I've just one request," said Travers. "You know Gardiner?"
"I've heard of him."
"Have him at the inquest."
"As a juror or witness?"
"It doesn't matter, but have him there."
"All right. I'll see to it. And now, Miss Harris, if you will permit
me, I will bring your horse for you."
Grey took a conveniently long time to find the horse, but at last he
appeared in the door. Beulah released her fingers from Jim's and
swung herself into the saddle.
"Sergeant Grey," she said, "I think you're the second best man in the
world. Good night."
The sergeant's military shoulders came up squarer still, and he stood
at attention as she rode into the darkness.